


fragments

by myrosebudboy



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 20:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7283311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrosebudboy/pseuds/myrosebudboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"things you said when you were crying"</p>
            </blockquote>





	fragments

**1\. “I killed him.”**

“I killed him,” you whisper, and your voice cracks. “I killed him.”

I’m gripping your hand and pressing you close to me like I can protect you from everything that’s happened. I wish I could. It’s drizzling and I’m sweating and so are you and you’re crying into my shoulder and I am drenched in tiredness and emptiness and heartbreak for you.

“You’re all right, love,” I whisper back. I’m not even sure if you’ve heard me. I say it again, anyway, clutching desperately at your hand like the pressure will bring you back to me. “You’re all right.”

You’re sobbing and sobbing and sobbing like the entire world has shattered and every shard has driven deep into your back.

-

**2\. “Shit.”**

I find you on the floor of the kitchen of your apartment at two in the morning, a can of beer shaking slightly in your hands. I pull it away from you and throw it into the dustbin. Your eyes are red, and you refuse to stand up, so I sit down on the floor beside you, stretching my legs out until they hit a leg of the little kitchen table. Your face is streaked with the stains of tears, and I don’t think you notice this, even as you lift your hand to carelessly rub at your nose, sniffling a little.

You grab my hand and scoot closer to me, laying your head on my shoulder. I reach for your hand again, and you sigh.

“Shit,” you murmur to me, and I tilt my head until it rests gently on top of yours. You smell of alcohol, of bitterness and sharpness. Of desperation, of regret.

I want to say something, but I don’t, because I don’t know what I want to say.

You fall asleep on my shoulder. I don’t move.

-

**3\. “I don’t know.”**

You’re perched cross-legged on your bed, back against the wall, gripping your pillow tightly. 

“Simon?”

You barely acknowledge me; all I get is a small nod of the head. I place a kiss on your cheek, and you taste of salt and grief.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, and the waves sweep in again, waterfalls cascading down your cheeks until your shoulders are heaving and your hands start to shake.

I’m helpless. All I can do is watch you, and hold you, and comfort you, but I will never be able to truly carry the weight of the world you insist on shouldering along with you.

You turn and press your lips to mine, and I let myself be swept away in the current for now, flying far out to sea.

-

**4\. “I’m a fucking mess.”**

I find you on the floor of the kitchen of your apartment at two in the morning again. You’re clutching a cup and you’re tapping your fingers against the porcelain, your eyes determinedly fixed on the wall opposite you.

I sit down beside you again, and I notice the cup holds coffee. Half of it is already gone.

“It’s two,” I murmur, and you turn your gaze to me, listlessly, distractedly.

We sit in silence for a while, and you down the entire cup of coffee in the meantime. I watch the way you hold the cup a little too tightly in your hands and the almost-spasmodic curl of your toes.

“I’m a fucking mess,” you suddenly say, and a choked kind of sob follows immediately after.

I pull you towards me, and you lay your head on my shoulder, and we’re here, again, two puzzle pieces clicking perfectly into place.

You smell of coffee. Of warmth, of home, of quiet.

“We’re all a fucking mess,” I whisper back, and your lips twitch upwards, almost humourlessly, but not quite.

(How ironic, that a bitter drink should be the sign of some sweetness at last.)

-

**5\. “Baz.”**

You’re huddled under your blanket, curtains shut, and I can hear you sniffling again. I curl up next to you, and you reach for my hand, fingers interlacing with mine. You’re warm and I’m cold, and we’re holding on tightly, fingers digging into each other’s skin.

“Baz,” you say softly.

I exhale. “Right here.”


End file.
